


A Horde Of Ghosts

by Borusa



Category: Belgariad/Malloreon Series - David & Leigh Eddings
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/pseuds/Borusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Geran, heir to the throne of Riva, is 18 years old. Inspired by his "Aunt" Polgara and his "Grandfather" Belgarath, he is writing his own story. Very aware of the line of ancestors behind him, he wonders about their lives, and in particular the lives of the other Gerans who came before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Horde Of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NYCScribbler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NYCScribbler/gifts).



_“After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts – like a Chinese nest of boxes – oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front – in our ancestors, back and back until...”_

_-Walter de la Mare, The Return_

**5398: Riva**

Have you ever wondered what it is like to be the one who comes after the greatest hero that the world has ever seen? To know that no matter what you do, how good you are, you’ll never match up?

My father is Belgarion, King of the Rivans, Overlord of the West. He is the Godslayer and a sorcerer.  There’s a chance he’ll live forever, which I would regard as a blessing, as the idea of succeeding him terrifies me. Imagine people’s reaction when they announce “The King of Riva”, and only I walk in.

When I was a baby, Belgarath the Sorcerer, my many-times-great-grandfather (we just call him “Grandfather” to avoid asphyxiation and for brevity) wrote down his life story, which also happens to be a pretty good history of the world. Aunt Pol, his daughter, then set down _her_ story, which was supposed to fill in the gaps. I guess it did, more or less, but it still left me wondering. From necessity (rather than Necessity), she didn’t go into much detail about my ancestors. Did you know that there have been five Gerans before me? The first was the prince saved from the Nyissan assassins by Aunt Pol, the last my actual grandfather, killed by Chamdar/Asharak the Murgo. I did wonder, reading Grandfather and Aunt Pol’s accounts, how it was that Chamdar got so close to my Father when he was small, given that Grandfather had been chasing him around the world for thousands of years.

Got you that time, aged ancestors, didn’t I?

I sometimes feel that line stretching behind me, faces that I can’t quite make out, hiding and guarding their secret. Sometimes I envy them, being ordinary, not having to worry about actually becoming King, and other times I wonder how much fear they lived with, worrying if every new visitor to town was a spy or, worse, an assassin. In what ways did it cost them, and how much?

***

**4106: Medalia**

Geran washed his hands in the trough fed from the rainwater butt that stood by the side wall of his house.  He watched the blood flow in streams, twining and mixing in the slow current, the whole mixture glowing in the dawn-light.

“Geran?” He looked up to see his wife, Ayledra, standing in the doorway. From the tired look in her eyes, he could tell she hadn’t slept either, either from worry or due to the baby moving within her. He shook his head and looked away, not wanting her to see the shame he knew was written on his face.

“Both of them?” she asked, aghast.

Yes. Yes, both of them. The baby, a girl. The mother, barely more than that. Both lost because of him. Because he wasn’t good enough. He punched the wall, putting all of his strength into the blow, revelling in the pain that shocked back up his arm.

Ayledra wrapped her arms around him, holding him from behind. “Geran. It’s OK. You did your best.”

“Pol…” Geran said, willing himself to be soothed, but unable to let go of the frustration yet.

“You know she can’t. You know why.”

Geran sighed. “At least she’ll be able to help you, when it’s time. The bloodline must be protected.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into his voice.

“You don’t mean that,” Ayledra said. “Pol has been more than an Aunt to you.”

“I know,” Geran said. He looked up at their house, a modest townhouse at the end of a row of equally modest townhouses, all leaning together as if for safety, in the unfashionable western part of Medalia.  “I feel like I’ve failed. My father was good at his trade. Prosperous. It wasn’t luxury, but we had plenty.”

“It’s enough for me,” Ayledra said. “It will be enough for our children, too.”

Geran turned to go inside. “I don’t want my only achievement to be that I had a son: that I continued the line.”

“Geran.” Ayledra's voice had an edge to it, not quite anger. “Even if it was the only thing you ever did, it would be plenty. You know what's at stake.”

He looked back to her, and spread his hands. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right. Just a difficult day.”

She wrapped her arms around him again, and this time it did make him feel better.

***  
**5398: Riva**

Wolf has been nervous lately. It worries me. He’s been with me all my life – as a puppy and now as full-grown dog. I remember a few years ago, when I was fourteen and I’d just discovered… There are some things that I can’t write even here. I wonder if Aunt Pol and Grandfather found the same? Unlike them, I’m not sure anyone will ever read this, but I’m not quite ready to put these things in ink.

There was a young man, I won’t reveal his name. He was, and is, the son of one of the Barons from the western side of the Isle. Rivans tend toward the gritty, and his father was one of the grimmest men I’ve ever met. The son, on the other hand … Aunt Pol observed that Rivans have a love of beauty that they keep hidden beneath their grey wrappings. This son’s grey wrapping was very thin indeed. He was a peacock coated in nothing more than granite dust.

I thought he was my friend.

Wolf never took to him, and I think that prevented me from becoming too closely involved with him. I’m grateful for that, and for the lesson I learnt, even if it was painful at the time. There are people who will try and exploit you for their own ends. Who will try to obtain any hold they can over you and use it to advance themselves, or whatever cause they cherish. This young man was one such. He had a letter I had written that contained childish indiscretions.

There has never been a longer night than the one I spent climbing on the outside of the building to break into his apartment and take it back. After I had got it, I opened the door and Wolf came in and marked the whole room. It was enough of a warning, and my friend felt it necessary to return to his father’s house.

Wolf is nervous, lately, and I am on my guard for someone else meaning me harm, even if they disguise it beneath a pleasant face and an intimate manner.

I’m sure my ancestors had run-ins with such people.

***

**4063: Erat**

Geran swept the floor. He was sure that he had swept it only yesterday, but the dust seemed to creep back in while he wasn't looking. And it was always possible that he was misremembering. It happened more and more, lately. Was he still a prince? He could still remember Riva, remember his Grandfather, just an austere and tall man who showed flashes of surprising warmth to his grandchildren.  Those memories – the flash of the knives, the hard eyes, the cold of the water – were always available. But what happened last week? Last month? Forever slipping away, details fading into mist.

Aunt Pol was right. He should never have even flirted with the idea of standing for the Council. It had felt so right, though, felt like a perfectly sized glove sliding onto his hand. He wondered if that feeling would carry on to his descendents, too. Was it in the blood, or the upbringing? Would they become ordinary, as Pol seemed to want, or would they always be different?

“Grandfather?” A man, young but full-grown, leant around the door, carrying his own broom.

It took Geran a moment to find the name, and he felt his cheeks heat with shame. “What is it, Alten?” he asked, hoping his grandson hadn't noticed the confusion.

“Aunt Pol and Grandma say that dinner is nearly ready, and you should wash before you come down.”

“Thank you, Alten,” he said. “I'll be there presently.”

Was there actually any difference between royalty and the common people anyway? If royalty had to wash up before dinner, and royalty had to sweep rooms? He had nearly lost everything through pride and folly. And that was just the time that Pol knew about.

***  
**4042: Muros**

The inn was called “The Cloven Hoof”, which didn't exactly make it stand out in the cattle-dominated town of Muros. Geran was on his third tankard of ale, or at least the third one that he had counted, and the dimensions of the room were starting to fluctuate around him.

“So,” he said, leaning across the rough wood of the table to make sure the man opposite could hear him. “You'll keep doing business with us?”

“Of course,” the man replied. For the moment, Geran couldn't quite recall his name, but he was sure it would come back to him. “I traded with Hattan for twenty years, how could I not continue with his fine and _distinguished_ son-in-law?”

Geran felt proud. After Hattan's death, an unexpected blow that the whole family had felt keenly, he had been concerned that the business would fade away. He tried to pull himself upright but over-did it, almost falling backwards off the bench and only managing to prevent it by clinging to the edge of the table. “You have a discerning eye, my friend.”

“Indeed I do, and it is that discerning eye that enables me to collect the best cattle. How many is it that you said you would buy, my noble partner?”

He couldn't remember how many he'd said, or what price. “The best cattle?” he said, hedging for time.

“The very best. And at a good price.”

The price he named made Geran's eyes water, but he needed to be seen to be as good as Hattan had been, to be as good as his ancestry and upbringing required. He offered his hand, and shook on the deal.

\---  
“Where did you get these?” Brenneg, his assistant, was looking at Geran with astonishment.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the good kind of astonishment.

The cattle that were being herded into the pen in front of them were thin to the point of starvation, their hides mottled with what Geran feared was some kind of mange. Even if they'd been well-fed and healthy, the cattle would still not have been up to the usual standard. He bowed his head down to the railing. “I was drunk,” he admitted, not wanting to look Brenneg in the face.

“Your father-in-law would never have bought cows such as these,” Brenneg said. “We can't put them with the others. I don't know what we're going to do.”

Geran moaned, miserably, his head down between his arms.

***  
**5398: Riva**

It wasn't on my behalf that Wolf was nervous.  The attack wasn't targetted at me, but at my sister, Beldaran.  Apparently, every couple of decades or so the Bear Cult get ideas. Quite what the idea behind this plan was, I have no real clue. All I know was that it started with "kidnap my sister."

Wolf had been even more restless that night, pacing up and down the floor of my room, refusing to let me sleep - every time I felt like I was going to finally nod off, he would leap onto my bed and lick my face.

"What is it, Wolf?" I asked, irritated, pushing him off the bed for the third time. Rather than going back to pacing the room, as he had on the two previous occasions, he went and whined by the door, scratching at it with a paw. Reluctantly, I climbed out from beneath the covers and went over to him. "You want out?" I asked. He just continued to scratch away until I was worried that he would damage the varnish and I'd have to have another one of those conversations with Mother.

The topic of Wolf and his continued presence in my bedroom has never quite gone away, like the wars in Arendia it simmers for a long while before occasionally exploding violently.

I opened the door, and Wolf burst out, growling fiercely. This was more than unusual - he's usually very calm - and so I went after him, half-chasing, half- following. He headed straight for my sister's room, down the corridor and around the corner. As we rounded that corner, I saw, silhouetted in the light from one of the night candles, the shape of a man, covered in some kind of furry cowl, entering her room. I yelled, Wolf gave a growl that was so loud it echoed off the stone corridor walls. I didn't stop to think, didn't stop to consider that I hadn't got any kind of weapon, was dressed only in my nightshirt, just charged straight towards him.

Let me tell you about Beldaran. She's pretty, clever, and nice. We've argued, obviously, sometimes, but in general we get on very well. She is, however, not very subtle. If you've read Aunt Pol's story, you've got the impression that all women are incredibly capable but very clever at hiding it, and all men slightly oafish and obvious.  I sometimes think that Aunt Pol has some old-fashioned ideas about men and women. It's probably because she's so ancient.

And again.

As I charged at the door, the thought struck me that I was prepared to die for Beldaran, and at that moment, I felt a kinship with my true grandfather.

***  
**5355: Annath**

When the door got too hot for Geran to touch, he gave up, and turned back to face Ildera. His wife was lying on the bed, curled protectively around Garion, who was surprisingly quiet. She looked up at him, and he shook his head. Ildera's eyes filled with tears, but there was no fear there, just a quiet acceptance.

The smoke started to filter from beneath the door, and even through the points where the wooden ceiling joists ran into the stone wall. From outside, just audible through the crackle and roar of the fire, came a voice.

"Polgara! Geran! Ildera!"

"It's Grandfather," Geran said. "Belgarath!" he called, heading toward the wall, and then he started coughing.

"Are you sure?" Ildera said, climbing slowly out of the bed. "It didn't sound like him." He saw an idea come to her. "That block on the back wall," she said, "the one you were going to fix. We might still be able to get that out."

"It won't be wide enough for us to get through," Geran said, and then realised what Ildera was suggesting. "Yes." He raced for the wall, prying at the loose block with his fingers, not worrying about the damage to his fingers, the blood that quickly welled up. Ildera joined him, handing him a hammer and chisel while still cradling the baby in her left arm.

Geran worked feverishly, chiselling at the mortar around the block until it was loose enough that, together, they were able to ease it from the wall.

With a thud, the block slid free and dropped onto the floor. Geran bent to peer through the window, sucking in the fresh air. He was aware that he was only buying a little time. The heat in the room was nearing the unbearable, and soon the fire would spread within it. He saw a pair of hands, waiting, and looked back, to Ildera, who was wrapping Garion in a blanket.

 Geran wanted to bless his son, give him one last gift, but no words came. He kissed Garion on his forehead, then passed him through the gap in the wall to the waiting hands. Ildera wrapped her arms around him, crying and coughing, and he soon found he was doing the same.

With a roar and a crash, the door gave way and the fire spat angrily into the room.

***

**5398: Riva**

It didn't matter that I didn't have a weapon. Wolf had leapt at the man in the doorway and before I could do anything, had him on the floor and had ripped his throat out.

There was an awful lot of blood.

Beldaran had thrown her bedspread over the other one, and together we wrestled him to the ground. I threw punches at what I guessed was his head with all the strength I had, and I didn't much care where they landed. Beldaran, meanwhile, was smashing at his kneecaps with her chamber-pot. It made a surprisingly effective weapon.

It can only have been a few moments before my father reached us, followed by three members of the Royal Guard, followed by my mother. Beldaran, Wolf, and I were all heroes, only we shouldn't do anything like it again, or some such. In the middle of the lecture, while the body and the injured captive were being carried out, I looked over at Beldaran and we shared a covert grin.

Regrettably, it was not so covert that our parents missed it.

I've spent a lot of time wondering about my ancestors, and being intimidated by my father's reputation. I realise now that he must have been scared a lot of the time, and for much of the rest simply operating on instinct and doing what seemed right.

I don't know if I will be king, or when, but the only thing I can do is try my hardest, do things my own way, and hope that is sufficiently good that I don't let down all the Gerans that have preceded me. I know they all did the best they could, under circumstances far harder than any I am likely to face. That doesn't make the challenges easier, but it gives me confidence that I can meet them. It's enough.

It has to be. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to C and S for the beta reading.


End file.
